


Who Killed John Watson???

by Trash_Squid



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crack, Drug Use, Explicit Language, I'm sorry Arthur Conan Doyle, I'm sorry BBC, I'm sorry England, Murder, Please Don't Take This Seriously, Sherlock is asthmatic because I said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 17:11:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_Squid/pseuds/Trash_Squid
Summary: After a heated debate about money with Watson, London's greatest detective Sherlock Holmes suddenly blacks out on the floor. When he wakes up, his pathetic sidekick is dead, his drugs are missing, and there's a revolver in his hand. Everyone's a suspect, and Sherlock's wits will be put to the test as he must track down the man (or woman) that murdered his so-called best friend. However, Sherlock seems to be his own greatest obstacle in the toughest case he's had yet.





	Who Killed John Watson???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never actually read Sherlock Holmes, nor do I intend to, so take this with a metric ton of salt.

It had been three days. Yes, Watson had counted 3 whole days, 72 hours, 4,320 minutes since Sherlock had moved off the couch. The detective was lying face-down in his bathrobe, his pipe hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth. Despite being untouched for nearly half a week, the pipe was still blazing, filling the house with nauseating clouds of smoke. Watson’s eyes burned as he stared ruefully at the pages of his book. He couldn’t see; he couldn’t breathe. The emotional burden of supporting Britain’s #1 asthmatic train-wreck had brought him to the brink of his sanity.  
“Sherlock, get off the couch,” Watson said meekly.  
"No”  
“Sherlock, get off the couch,” Watson implored tearfully.  
“No”  
“Sherlock, get off the couch,” Watson begged with the sorrow of a thousand broken souls, his voice quivering like the cheap aspic that he ate for breakfast.  
“Hmmmmmmmmm......” Sherlock’s velvet smoker’s rasp lingered for far too long. “No.”  
Watson closed his book, and put his head in his hands, sobbing. Watson often put his head in his hands and sobbed, and as usual, he was ignored.  
Suddenly, Sherlock sprang up. “Watson!” he expostulated. “Watson, you lazy fuck, we’ve got to go!”  
“Wot?” Watson asked in a distinctly British accent because they lived in Britain.  
“W-W-Watson, we’re gonna be late for PoisonCon 1880! I can’t believe you didn’t remember! Now, be a good chap and grab my inhaler!”  
Reluctantly, Watson went like a good chap to grab Sherlock’s inhaler, even though it was 1880 and inhalers didn’t exist yet. When he returned, Sherlock was fully dressed in his signature tweed detective’s outfit. He was also snorting a line of cocaine off the coffee table. Watson rolled his eyes, moist and bloodshot from the hardship he endured daily (and also the tobacco smoke). “Are you ready?”  
“Hold your horses, Watson,” Sherlock replied, sniffling. He pulled a flask from his pocket and took an uncomfortably long swig, downing at least half of its contents. “Alright, let’s go!”  
Sherlock, smoking his pipe, walked down the smoggy streets of London like a man on a mission, a man who was running late to PoisonCon 1880. Watson waddled dolefully behind like a man who did not want to go to PoisonCon 1880 yet feared for his life if he didn’t. “Sherlock,” he asked. “Why don’t we hail a cab?”  
“Watson, you ignorant slut, don’t you know that smog is good for you?” Sherlock wheezed in reply. “We need this fresh city air!”  
Finally, they arrived at London Convention Center, which was promptly bustling with poison enthusiasts. “Damn it, Watson, I wanted to beat the crowds!” Sherlock snapped irritably, as irritable cokeheads do.  
After waiting for an hour in the will-call line, then arguing with the ticket salesman whether Watson’s 4’11.5 height qualified him as a minor, then haggling security about Sherlock’s 5 unlicensed firearms, the two entered the hallowed halls of PoisonCon 1880. It was glorious. It was breathtaking. It was exactly what PoisonCon was meant to me. Sherlock and Watson strolled along the aisles, visiting booths full of potions, elixirs, powders, and various other harmful substances. They oohed and ahhed at real life poisoning demonstrations. They attended a panel on scorpion farming. Overall, it was quite possibly the most boring yet dangerous-and-possibly-illegal event that Watson had ever been to. As evening approached, Sherlock announced that he had one final stop to make after his fifth trip to the bathroom.  
“Sherlock, why do you use the loo so much?” Watson asked, saying loo because they lived in Britain, which is where people say loo.  
“Well, I drink copious amounts of liquor, and the buzz from my cocaine wears off rather frequently, so I either have to piss, get high, or both. Mind your own business, Watson.”  
Watson nodded, remembering to mind his own business.  
“Now Watson, before we leave, I plan to buy two stones of cyanide with the money I stole from your savings account.”  
“Sherlock, that’s 28 pounds of cyanide! What are you going to do with 28 pounds of cyanide?!”  
“Why I’m going to build up a tolerance, of course! Every night, I’m going to put a little cyanide in my tea, and eventually I’ll be immune to it in case anyone tries to kill me with cyanide. You’d know these things if you were a genuine poison enthusiast.”  
“Sherlock, that’s how you get cyanide poisoning! You’ll kill yourself!”  
“Sh-Shut up, Watson, you’re not a doctor.”  
“But Sherlock, I am.”  
“No, you’re not.”  
“But Sherlock, _I am_ ,” Watson insisted, his voice rising pitifully. They’d had this conversation many times.  
“Watson, I am the finest detective in all of Wherever-the-hell-we-live, and I’d bet my inhaler that you’re not a doctor.”  
“ _But Sherlock, I AM!_ ” Watson fought back tears once more as he pulled his medical license out of his pocket. The certificate, though worn and stained, clearly read: John Watson, MD. Sherlock snatched the license away and squinted at it, but his vision was too blurry to make out the letters. He handed it back smugly.  
“Don’t be silly, Watson. You’re too stupid to be a doctor. Now stop waving that thing around and come on.”  
Reluctantly, Watson watched as Sherlock bought his two stones of cyanide. The detective immediately dumped them on the doctor. “Be a good chap and carry these, will you? I’ve got my pipe in one hand and my inhaler in the other. I think we’ll take the scenic route home tonight.”  
“But Sherlock, the scenic route is ten blocks longer,” Watson panted, struggling to carry the cyanide.  
“Precisely, Watson. We’ll be able to enjoy ten whole more blocks of London’s finest slums and back alleyways.”  
Then, like a very inebriated hare and a very depressed tortoise carrying 28 pounds of cyanide, they were off.


End file.
